


Never Bring You Misery

by Meridians_of_Madness



Category: Good Omens (TV), Hellblazer
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mentions of Cancer, Seduction, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23459533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness
Summary: Crowley does not fuck with Constantines, but every rule has an exception or two.
Relationships: John Constantine/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65
Collections: IK Shenanigans





	Never Bring You Misery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gray_Days](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Days/gifts), [Langerhan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langerhan/gifts).



**March 1977**

It was a piss-cold night in March, and the only reason Crowley was in Liverpool at all was to perform a temptation that he was half-certain was revenge for showing up Ligur. He should have gone straight back to London, and the only reason he didn't was because there was a rumor round town that Low Dogs was playing at the local punk club. Said club was a sweat pit located in the basement of an old butcher's shop, which, about right for how he was feeling.

Anyway, sometime after midnight, it was clear that the Low Dogs weren't to be found. Instead the venue kicked the opening band that Crowley had very carefully missed up on the stage, some silly lot of buggers calling themselves Mucus Membrane. Crowley was on his way out, because, seriously, not enough money in the _world_ for this nonsense, when a sting of magic caught him right between the shoulders. It was sharp enough to make him turn around in confusion and just a little bit of dread, scanning the crowd for what this new trouble was.

Mucus Membrane was incomprehensible, making up with volume what they lacked in talent, and over the heads of the twenty or so kids throwing themselves around like rag dolls in the pit, he saw the singer-short, blond, good-looking in a grubby sort of way- doing his very best not-very-good-at-all Sid Vicious impression. For a moment, Crowley wondered what he had felt, and then when singer grinned, charisma to spare without a fucking clue how to really use it, the penny dropped.

 _Ah fuck me, it's a Constantine,_ Crowley thought with despair.

Crowley, who had better eyes than average, could spot them by this point. They'd mostly been blue-eyed blonds with passing nice mouths for maybe two hundred years, but even before they swiped the name back in Arthur's day and even in Rome and before that in Leucotheon, they were bastards every one. Too curious, too ambitious, too powerful for their own good and not powerful enough to protect themselves and those that ended up stuck with them.

Constantines burned bright and stupid, and as Crowley watched, the kid on the stage (twenty-five if he was a day, but yeah, still a kid), pointed straight at him.

“And this one's for the southern fuck trying to sneak out middle of a show!”

The newest heir of Team Hellbound and Fucked flipped him off and broke into a screaming chorus of something about the dukes of Hell and flaming rivers of piss. Satan, it was bad, but he at least appreciated the reference to Beelzebub's “many gaseous open maws.”

Crowley surprised himself by staying for the entire set, such as it was, and throughout, Constantine the Newest's eyes flickered to him over and over again. Constantines saw, not as well as demons did, but more than your average mortal.

This one seemed keener than most, Crowley mused, maybe as bright as Johanna had been, God rot her wherever she had ended up.

A Johanna could certainly shake the world up some, especially in these late days, Crowley thought, and then Constantine went for a stage dive and crashed straight through the crowd to the cement floor.

Or not.

Still Crowley waited until the set was over, watched in amusement as Constantine slapped a plaster over his bleeding cheek and stalked towards him. Grinning, Crowley ducked around a corner, and when Cornstantine rounded it right after him, there was no one there to be seen.

“Fucking cocktease,” Constantine muttered, and then he jumped a mile when Crowley laughed softly in his ear.

“Show me a cock worth having, and maybe I won't, little Johnny Con-Job,” Crowley jeered, and then he was gone.

-

**January 1979**

Two years later, on his way back from some work in Middlesbrough, Crowley felt the night fold in on itself, reality warping so that the Bentley slowed coming around a curve, and Crowley got a totally foreign urge to pick up the hitchhiker on the side of the road.

 _Oh for fuck's sake,_ he thought in exasperation, recognizing the figure dashing towards the passenger door. _It'd serve him right if I just kept on._

And then for some reason entirely unrelated to Constantine's crap magery, he didn't, instead chucking a stack of papers from the back onto the seat as the door opened.

“You fucking reek, sit on the papers so I don't have to steam you out of the velour.”

Constantine muttered something that sounded a little like _thanks,_ and that made Crowley do a double-take.

Constantines were typically not a thankful lot, and the arrogant little punk of two years ago would have swaggered in as if he had every right to a lift. Crowley took in Constantine's gauntness under his over-large coat, the left eye nearly swollen shut, and more telling than anything else, the hunched way he slumped in the seat, as if he had come this far and could go no further.

“Well, Johnny,” Crowley said, “are you coming or going?”

That won a laugh out of him for some reason, and he scrubbed a hand over his stubbled head. Prison or institution, Crowley surmised; if he'd caught a whiff of skinhead he would have kept driving, curious or not.

“That's a good question. Do I know you?”

Crowley glanced down with amusement at his current form, shoulder-length hair curled, lips done, sharp enough to cut in a black silk slip dress and heels that would set him almost a foot over Constantine if they were standing facing each other.

“Do you want to know me?”

Constantines went after the temptation of forbidden knowledge like it was candy, and Crowley knew that there was something really wrong when this one only gave him a tired look.

“Not that I wouldn't like to get my mouth on those tits of yours, love, but look at the state've me.”

“I am,” Crowley said, and the silence lasted long enough that his passenger stirred uneasily.

“What d'you see?” he asked finally, because he was pushing thirty and still wet around the ears.

There were a lot of answers to that. Constantine, ruin, a true Laughing Magician, hell-bait, survivor, killer, victim, star, and burn-out.

“A man who needs a fucking shower and a hot meal if he's to be any good to me,” Crowley said at last, and he started the car.

He didn't know what the clerk at the desk thought when they checked in together, Crowley's black snakeskin pumps alone worth more than you'd get flogging Constantine off to a shady organ harvester, but he handed over the key and they made their way to the room at the end of the poorly-lit hall.

John headed straight for the shower without pause, and Crowley, reminding himself that temptations took all forms, miracled up a proper old-fashioned fry-up onto the tiny table by the sealed window.

Stretched out on the grotty little bed, he was idly thinking about what might come next -that offer to get Constantine's mouth on his tits wasn't actually too unappealing – and then he tilted his head, listening.

His eyes were better than average, and so were his ears, and even over the rushing water, he could hear a stuttered breath that was trying very hard not to be a sob.

Crowley sighed.

Not that kind of demon. Never that kind of demon.

Instead, he rose from the bed and, after a moment of thought, dashed off a quick note on the hotel stationery.

Whenever Constantine got the balls to come out of the bathroom, he'd be confronted with about two thousand calories of honest grease and a note tucked under the glass of orange juice.

_Be seeing you, Johnny._

-

**June 1987**

The only people throwing decent parties in the summer of 1987 were Tories, because they were the only ones who had anything to celebrate and they were the only ones who could afford to celebrate with anything like style.

Crowley'd shown up at the penthouse party to do his bit for making the world a slightly worse place, and he was on his way out again when he caught a flash of blond hair and an earful of bullshit.

 _Well, that's a marginally better look than I saw last,_ Crowley thought, watching as John passed a cigar to a gaunt man hanging on his every word.

Constantine looked as if he had never stood by the side of the road like a mangy stray dog. He was sharp enough to cut with his pricey suit and his hair slicked back, and if money had a smell, it would probably be that awful cologne he was wearing.

Crowley sat at the bar and watched Constantine operating with a critical eye, observed him going from man to man, making promises, winking, playing hail-fellow-well-met for all that he was worth.

 _Not bad,_ Crowley thought judiciously. _He'd make a halfway decent tempter if he could actually see the pit opening up under his feet._

Eventually Constantine worked his way over to the bar, and he tipped Crowley a wink, buying him something monstrously strong and sweet. After a moment of consideration, Crowley followed him onto the conveniently empty balcony.

“Who've you got your eye on, then?” John asked, lighting a cigarette.

“That one in the green Armani. A colleague has big plans for him when he gets belowstairs.”

“Ah, all right. I'll steer clear, then.”

Crowley shrugged.

“Don't bother on my account. They all go the same way sooner or later.”

“And me?”

“And you what?”

John scowled, taking an angry puff on his cigarette and looking out over London.

 _Laughing Magician,_ Crowley thought. _Almost come into his own, but not there yet, not quite._

“Last time we met...”

Crowley snickered.

“Aw, did you think you sold your soul off for some sausages and a night at a bad hotel, love?”

“You didn't even pay for the room. Bastard almost had the cops after me that morning. But.”

“But?”

John reached up and uneasily rubbed his chest, over his heart. It looked like a gesture he had made a thousand times before, and against his will, Crowley felt a similar pang in his own chest.

“Felt different after that. Strange.”

“Oh, you poor little fuck.”

Crowley patted John's cheek, and faster than he had thought he would be, John grabbed him by the wrist, not letting him pull back.

“Don't fucking play with me -”

“It was _breakfast_ , Johnny, that's all. Satan, but you need to live better.”

He grinned at that, not letting go of Crowley's wrist.

“I've heard that before.”

Crowley started to respond, but then John turned his head to nuzzle the cup of Crowley's palm. The sizzle of skin and purely human magery made his breath catch.

“I do not fuck Constantines,” he said.

“Why not? We're fun.”

“You're not. You're disaster wrapped up in bastardy wrapped up in knives.”

John made an agreeable sound, nipping lightly at the heel of Crowley's hand.

“You didn't always think that. I've got Farris's journals. You're Red Anthony, aren't you?”

“Have been. And if you know anything about good old Uncle Farris, you ought to know how well that turned out for all concerned.”

“I'm not Farris,” John murmured, reeling Crowley in so that he had John pressed against the balcony wall.

“You're all alike,” Crowley said. “You, Harry, Farris, Johanna, Tilda... you all say you'll call in the morning, but you never do.”

“I'll call,” John said with a laugh, and it was so bloody stupid that Crowley couldn't resist kissing him.

Crowley woke up missing his sunglasses and a hundred quid. He also woke up splendidly sore, well-chewed, and a little dizzy with dehydration and good sex. He decided to say he broke even.

Bastard never did call.

-

**April 1991**

The next time Crowley saw Constantine, it was the nineties. The party was over, everyone was hungover, the angel was being an insufferable, ineffable little _prick,_ and with the apocalypse hanging over their heads like a poorly-mounted chandelier, Crowley didn't know if he was coming or going.

He was giving the coke a miss these days, more for it being a little last week than out of any personal conviction, but he knew he was drinking too much. They said that drinking alone was a bad sign, but when Constantine tracked him down to a nasty little place in Shoreditch, he found he was in no hurry to remedy the situation.

“Piss off,” he said, because he was in no fucking mood, but Constantine slid into the booth anyway, his face taut and white and made all the worse for the rictus he tried to pass off as a grin.

“I know I said I'd call...”

“Piss _off_ ” Crowley repeated. “I don't have time for you today, little boy.”

“I don't any time left at all.”

Crowley looked up with a scowl. He was used to Constantines looking bad, they looked bad more often than they looked good, but John was in a particularly poor state. There was a drawn and desperate quality to him, his face chalky and the lines drawn too dark. Now that Crowley was paying attention, he could smell a change in him as well, something wet and left to molder.

Frowning, Crowley looked more sharply and found dark and viscous fronds weaving their merry way through the tissue of John's lungs. Crowley knew that if he pressed his ear against John's chest, he would hear them, their forest-fire progress roaring as they rotted him cell by cell by cell.

“Well,” he said.

John nodded, pulling out a pack of of Silk Cuts and his lighter. His hands were trembling so much that Crowley had to reach across to steady them, darkly amused at the picture it made.

“You don't want me,” Crowley said bluntly. “This isn't my department, love You'll want that Irish bastard with his blessed stout, or maybe your great green friend. Hell, maybe you need a witch. Go find out what the most recent Device is up to, maybe she'll do you a good turn.”

“Been and done,” John said, slouching back in the booth. “I'm out of friends.”

“Sad place to be for a dying man,” Crowley observed.

“Come on,” John said, desperate enough to stop smiling. “Come on. There has to be something.”

Crowley considered. There probably was. He wouldn't be the first demon to keep a Constantine on a leash. Demons didn't heal, but God almighty, could a man be a long time in dying.

 _Apocalypse's coming,_ whispered an insidious voice in the back of his mind. _Could do worse than to have a Johanna in your pocket._

He looked at John, and he wished he had never stopped at that Liverpool club back in '77, never pulled over in '79.He wished they hadn't had that one brilliant night in '87, hundred quid or not. He could have done it if it was just another Constantine, most recent son of Team Hellbound and Fucked. He couldn't do it to –

“Johnny-boy,” he said at last. “As you said, you're out of friends.”

He downed the rest of his glass so John could have his moment of betrayal and heartbreak in private, and he rose to his feet.

“I'll keep an eye out for you downstairs,” Crowley said, and he walked out.

-

**May 1993**

The envelope was slid under the door of his new flat in Mayfair, and Crowley was ready to set some presumptuous fuck on fire before he realized what it was for. He read the silly little card – _Lordy, Lordy, Look Who's Forty –_ and then he started to laugh.

Two days later, hair done, dressed in silk, and remembering how good he looked in stiletto heels, Crowley was ringing the doorbell of a surprisingly nice flat in Bethnal Green. John, red in the face, tie undone, but otherwise the picture of health, threw open the door, took one look, and turned his head to the noisy crowd behind him.

“Hey, who called for the sad old stripper service?” he shouted back, and then he turned to Crowley, hesitating for a moment.

“I got an invitation,” Crowley said. “I brought a present.”

“Seem to recall you saying that I was out of friends,” John retorted.

Crowley inclined his head slightly.

“I was obviously wrong.”

“Not going to say sorry?”

“To you?”

“Yeah, obviously.”

“Do you want me to?”

John hesitated. Shook his head.

“Don't want to talk about that at all,” he said. “Get your skinny arse in here.”

To Crowley's surprise, John leaned against him for a moment as he stepped in, pressing his forehead against Crowley's shoulder. He was drunk, and could pretend he was drunker, and Crowley decided to let him pretend.

“Thanks for coming. And thanks for not... for not,” John mumbled.

“Knew you'd figure it out,” Crowley whispered back. It was a lie, but he was a demon. He was allowed.

“'Cos I'm a Constantine?”

_Just a Constantine? Only a Constantine?_

He said it easily, but his pretty blue eyes searched Crowley's face for an answer.

Forty and still wet behind the ears. This one was never going to grow up – he'd never get the chance. John might have beat the devil three times, but Crowley knew better than anyone else that winning streaks ended, and the longer one went on, the more hungry people were to see you lose.

“Because you're too stupid to lie down and die,” he said. “Now come on, open my present and then pour me out some of it. I wasn't going to trust the drinks at any party you were throwing.”


End file.
